


daddy issues

by GalekhXigisi



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Can be platonic or romantic, Child Abuse, Hinted at Poly losers, Hurt/Comfort, Menstruation, Trans Richie Tozier, Transphobia, Very lowkey hinted at Streddie, Whatever y'all want, lowkey implied, more hinted at than anything, we ALL have daddy issues okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-02
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-20 21:01:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21288116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GalekhXigisi/pseuds/GalekhXigisi
Summary: "I'm leaving," she jokes."You sound like my dad," he says.He says it like he hasn't heard his father threaten to leave before.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 125





	1. Chapter 1

Richie’s been thinking about it for hours now. He really has, which is so  _ stupid _ of him. He shouldn’t be overthinking this  _ bullshit. _ It wasn’t like him. Since when was he like this? Why had it mattered? 

_ “I’m gonna leave,” Beverly jokes, smiling widely at the camera, Skype pulled up. They’re only a few minutes away from each other, but everyone had something they had to do, something distracting them and preventing them all from meeting up. They had improvised, had turned to a different solution. They were Skyping, talking in the chat and sending whatever meme hit their mind.  _

_ Mike was doing homework, camera facing him as he typed, keys clacking as he scoffs at Beverly’s antics.  _

_ He doesn’t think. Richie never really thinks out what he says. Instead, he just says, “Wow, you sound like my Dad.”  _

_ The chat was silent for a split second before they exploded. Stan shakes his head, “Dude, you can’t say that!”  _

_ Eddie pipes in, “Yeah, you still have a dad!”  _

_ He laughs, though, thankful that he had his camera off. He never really had it on, that’s just now how he was. He could never explain why he didn’t have it on, but no one ever really questioned him about it. Ben rarely ever had his on, either.  _

_ They laugh for a few minutes before Richie says, “Shit, I gotta go, my phone’s on two percent.” It’s a lie. It’s on nineteen percent, it’s not about to die. He certainly has a few more minutes, certainly had a lot more time, probably twenty minutes before it hits ten percent if he just turns his phone off and listens to their voices like he usually does until someone tells him to look at them to show something off like Bill always does when Georgie presents a drawing.  _

_ The entire group dismisses it, lets him do what he wants, telling him goodbye in their own ways. _

He had said it… Oddly. 

He said it like he hadn’t heard the whispers of his parents’ possible divorce before. He had said it like his dad wasn’t an alcoholic at one point, one that made sure to tell Richie whatever he wanted to put him in his place. He said it like he didn’t remember just months before when his parents fought every fucking day and his mother had even presented divorce papers at one point with determination on her face. He said it like his dad hadn’t gotten shitfaced that night and cried before telling Richie that he really didn’t mind leaving. He had said it like he didn’t remember his father telling him he’d leave if they ever had to live with their Nana…  _ again. _

Richie had spent years trying to forget when his father was an alcoholic that spent hundreds on alcohol every other week, had drunk away their life savings until they had to move in with Maggie’s mother because that’s just how things were. They lived with her for two years. Wentworth had broken his addiction, recovered. They moved out, but only for another year before Wentworth relapsed and they ended up in the same place once again, back on his Nana’s doorstep with a few boxes that never actually got put up, just sitting in his room, still packed and labeled. Things were rough for a few years, the family moving around again and again. 

They found Derry and sat, sticking there since Richie was ten years old. Wentworth had even managed to be not-shitty-enough to agree on getting his son’s name changed from a dead one to Richard, sticking to Richie with a few slip-ups or taunts. Now, alcohol only ever came around for his mother when she went drinking with the woman that was practically her wife,  _ Evelyn. _ Richie didn’t know shit about her, but he was never going to ask. 

Now, he sits in his room, curled up with blankets covering him as the music he had set up played, the same song repeating over and over again. He couldn’t think of the name, but he knew it was  _ The Neighborhood _ and it wasn’t  _ Sweater Weather. _ Maybe it was  _ Roll Call _ or  _ Softcore _ or just one of their songs, but it had been playing for hours now, blasting on a repetitive loop since his parents weren’t home and he was going to be alone for a couple more hours. 

They didn’t know. Richie had never told them. He never had them over, never let them come in when his parents were home. They only came in for seven minutes, at most, including Stan, who had reached that limit of seven minutes. Everyone else only stuck around for three, with the exception of Eddie, who had spent a total of five minutes in the Tozier household. They had never met either of his parents outside of public get together where the two older Tozier were a white family’s wet dream couple, hanging off of each other and constantly gushing about their love for each other. 

He grits his teeth and sneers at the thought. It was all so fucking  _ fake. _ His mother had concocted the idea that the Toziers were amazing together, even if their son was a bit of a trash mouth who always pissed people off and said the wrong thing that only made the situation worse.  _ Trashmouth Tozier, _ he had been called a million times before. Even his parents had adopted the nickname into their lives, using it more as an insult than an affectionate term like the others had. It made his stomach churn every single time he heard it, now, no longer sitting as a good-natured term in his mind. Instead, it was toxic and made his skin feel like he was breaking out in hives. It made him itch all over. 

He wants to cry. Usually, he’d be sobbing, but tonight felt different. He didn’t have the energy, didn’t feel like churning it about again and again as sobs wracked his body. So, he grimaces and lets the tears fall, no noises leaving him. Slowly, he realizes the song is  _ Daddy Issues, _ looping. It’s ironic that shuffle managed to play that first. He makes a mental note to turn on repeat when he finally gets the chance. That change won’t come soon, but one could only hope, right? 

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

“You haven’t said anything,” Bev says to the group, though she’s met with hums and confusion, as the group had been talking for  _ hours _ now. “Sorry, I mean Richie.” 

The mentioned boy turns towards the camera and hums softly, not making much more noise. His body feels like it’s buzzing with anxious energy but he can’t find it in him to say a reply. His camera is turned off, the computer laying on its screen, the speaker facing him. Richie had only been half-heartedly listening, zoned out during most of the conversation. Things were tense as he grabbed his phone, turning off his muted speaker. He had muted himself and hadn’t told them, leaving them to think he was just silently sitting there, listening to them. He just didn’t want for them to hear his parents fighting in the next room, screaming at each other like he wasn’t in there. He thought they were finally done with all their fighting, but…

“M’sorry,” he says, “M’jus’ really tired.” It’s mostly slurred as he turns to his glasses that he had taken off at some point near the beginning on the call, moving them from his pillow to his bedside table. “Haven’t slept in a few days.” He mutes it once again, thankful that his parents seemed to have a momentary quiet that was just long enough for him to say what needed to be said. They immediately started yelling just after that. 

“Oh,” Beverly says hollowly. “How long is a while?” 

Richie slowly types out his reply, squinting at the keyboard,  _ Like, 3 or 4 days. _

“Jesus,” Eddie comments, “Why the fuck not? Have your sleeping pills not been working? Or your anxiety stuff? Or-” 

“We  _ get it, _ Eddie,” Stan comments. Richie is sure he’s rolling his eyes now. “He’s got a lot of medicine, don’t berate him about it.” 

“I didn’t mean-”

_ Medicine is working, jus haven’t been able to sleep, _ he sends. It’s mostly the truth up until that text. He hadn’t slept in three days and thirteen, no, now  _ fourteen _ hours. He couldn’t with his parents arguing every single time he tried to lay down, his own shallow breathing not loud enough to counter their screams that always seemed to anchor around Richie being the only reason his mother had stayed with Wentworth instead of leaving for Evelyn. Richie had realized after the first night that trying to keep food down after hearing that was rather impossible when guilt and anxiety constantly pricked at his mind. He wonders if the two adults even realize what’s going on with their son. He doubts. Neither were ever home anymore until it was time for bed. He thinks that’s the only reason they can keep up their marriage, the lack of one comforting the woman “Mourning a daughter” and the man detesting a son he never wanted in the first place. 

“Do you want to come over,” Mike instantly asks, “because I’m sure you could sleep over here if you want. I know your parents are never home so it gets lonely, but-” 

Richie unmutes his microphone, quickly sneering, “No, they’re home,” before muting himself again. 

There’s a pause before Ben’s voice tentatively asks, “Are… Are they  _ fighting _ in the background, Rich?” 

Richie doesn’t respond, slowly leaning up, blankets thrown off in his haste. 

“We - e could all go - go - o to the cl - clubhouse,” Bill suggests slowly. He was getting better with his stutter, taking Richie’s offhand advice to imagine the words before he says them and try to be a little slower with it. It had only been an offhand suggestion but Bill had taken it to heart now. Sure, there were moments where no one could tell, but they were only fifteen, so there was certainly going to be more than enough time to fix it. 

“Yeah,” Eddie supports. 

Richie wasn’t listening anymore, moving on autopilot to get his things. His medication got thrown in his backpack, clothes, pads, and whatever else following. He was ready to cry and fight with his family as he opened to door, not caring that the two were in the hallway, arguing once again with each other. 

“And where are  _ you _ going,” Maggie asks, voice strict and lashing at the boy. 

“To Stan’s,” he provides as he skips down the stairs, taking three at a time. 

“At one in the morning, Rosie,” she asks with a raised brow. 

“I’d be staying if you two stopped fucking fighting,” he lashes, thankful he had hung up from Skype at some point during the call. He’s already at the front door, unlocking it. “One in the morning and you smell like liquor and perfume. That’s fucking  _ pathetic,” _ he tells her as he shuts the door behind himself, slipping his house key into his pocket. He takes off running before he can think it out. His mother was certainly going to have a few things to say, such as getting angry at him for leaving without fucking shoes  _ (he was in a rush, unfortunately), _ but he didn’t want to listen to it. His mind felt like static and he was ready to pass out at any moment’s notice. Bare feet slap against the cold pavement as Misses Tozier yells down the street with a dead name that hadn’t fit in years. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't usually follow up on one-shots but I'm particularly sad tonight because my dad pointed out that I smile at my computer/phone without context like I couldn't be watching a show or reading something so now I'm super aware of it and can't smile at either without getting wary and dropping the expression instantly so whatever.


	3. Chapter 3

Richie isn’t at all surprised to find all of the losers piling into the clubhouse at once. He had taken refuge in the hammock, curled up on his side, nod facing the group. He could hear their footsteps, could hear them tumbling down. He knew their footsteps.  _ Eddie, Stan, Ben, Beverly, Bill, Mike, _ he thought as he heard each of them come down, their voices soft. 

“Richie,” Eddie asks in a soft voice, finger tapping at his shoulder. 

Richie leans up, brows furrowed as he peers at the boy who looked too worried, even if his glasses were hooked on the side of his bag that was hooked on one of the nails in the posts for the hammock. Richie couldn’t make out his features too well, but he knew them by heart, each and every worried line etched into his memory since they were young. Stan had the same expression Richie had memorized over the years, he knows, but he can’t see him for Eddie. He didn’t mind, though. Richie didn’t want the group to see the red-rimmed eyes and tear streaks that were still falling thickly. They could all see it. 

Richie bitterly chokes, “What, Eddie? You gonna spit some shit about how I shouldn’t run away from my parents while they’re still nice and I have them?” He’s bitter. Richie has to be. He  _ has _ to be bitter because if he’s not, he’ll crumble into a million pieces and fall apart right now. This wasn’t a  _ kiss it better _ sort of ordeal. This was a  _ handle cautiously and with care for a while _ situation. Richie rarely ever let those things be brought to light when it came to himself. 

“Is this about our conversation at lunch,” Eddie asks. They had talked at lunch and RIhcie had mentioned his parents were fighting some now, but left it at that after Eddie had sneered something about loving his parents because  _ they’re pretty nice, Rich. _

“That added to it,” Richie admits, but he knows they won’t drop it at that, not as Ben comes up and stands beside Eddie, tentative with each movement. “I’m not going to fucking bite you,” he scoffs, wiping at his face as tears burn a trail down, “and I’m not fucking glass so say what you fucking want to!” He doesn’t want that treated shell his parents had braced him with, walking around topics like a single noise would break everything. 

Ben nods slowly. “I want to know what started this, Rich,” he says in a soft tone that Richie isn’t used to hearing from  _ anyone, _ especially not aimed at  _ him. _

What little bit Richie could tell was Ben fades as he shuts his eyes, cries falling from his lips as tears blur everything into messy streaks of yucky colors. The cries are harsh and shake his whole body, He can’t even name the last time he’s cried over something like this, cried over his parents and the issues they had inevitably piled onto him. His cries don’t stop, either. THey’re rough and he’s coughing and it’s fucking  _ disgusting, _ something that he’s sure he would avoid if given the opportunity. However, Mike is there, holding him as he sobs, patting his back and letting Richie grip him in a too-tight hold. He gags from the cries and coughs, but Mike only holds his hair out of the way and a plastic bag when he starts gagging, soon spewing regurgitated spit and stomach acid that burns his throat like those cigarette butts he used to always step on outside after his dad had smoked. He still stepped on them, just much less now that Wentworth was typically out of the picture, as well as Maggie. 

It takes hours upon  _ hours _ for Richie to calm down, all the losers sitting around the hammock and saying some form of something sweet that would be nothing more than a jumbled amount of words. His head felt like it had been kicked and Stan is there to offer him pain killers and a bottle of water within an instant. Richie is thankful for that and thankful for the fact he manages to keep down the two things after a few moments of gagging. 

“I - I made a stupid  _ joke,” _ Richie whimpers softly, still perched in the hammock. Now looking significantly shittier, Richie had found that he had smudged all the makeup around his eyes off, leaving those dark circles that made him look sickly and thinner than normal clear for them all. “An - And Stan said not to - o becuase I  _ can’t say that.” _ He sniffles, looking at his lap. His glasses were still off and tears were still falling. Damn him and his sad ass complex with sensitive emotions. “Eddie said I couldn’t - ouldn’t - n’t because I still have a dad.” 

“When B - Bev said she was leaving,” Bill asks slowly. 

Richie nods, swiping a hand across raw, red skin. His cheeks were burning. “Wen - Went was an alcoholic until I was, like, eleven.” He forces a painful smile. “And he fought with Maggie  _ daily.” _ He scoffs softly before continuing, “And Went wanted to leave for  _ so long. _ Maggie said she wanted to, too, but I was the issue.” Richie can’t help the bitter chuckle that leaves him. “I’m  _ the fuckup,” _ he exclaims with a toss of his arms, “and they make sure I know it! They didn’t want me! Mags wanted a girl and Went didn’t even  _ want _ a kid!” He throws his head back and practically  _ cackles, _ tears soaping his face again. “Mags is practically with Evelyn! Did you know Evelyn even moved  _ right beside us _ because Maggie said she wanted to be closer to her?” 

Fingers thread with his own, notably Mike’s. Soft hands squeeze at his palm and he inhales, slow and sad. 

“Didn’t want you guys to know,” he whispers softly, “But… I’m a big cry baby and I can’t  _ not _ cry over every  _ fucking thing _ and I’m just so…  _ Damn tired.” _ He inhales again, sniffling his way through the new round of tears. “We lived with my Nana for a while when he was an alcoholic… Twice, actually. He spent all our money and Maggie couldn’t do much. They’re barely home and they always fight when they are. It’s why I never wanted you guys over…” 

Richie lays down in the hammock. “I don’t wanna talk anymore,” he tells them, “so can we just…  _ sleep?” _

“Yeah,” Beverly whispers as she stands up. She throws a blanket over Richie, just one of the many they had collected in the clubhouse that still sat around. They’d have to be asked soon, but, for now, Richie doesn’t mind. He’ll sleep through school, but that’s okay. It’s  _ always _ okay. 

Everyone else gets comfortable, Mike not separating their hands. A few pairs of lips press against his face, all soft and timid after the lights are turned off. Each one is accompanied with its own version of goodnight and some sort of moral support, which Richie is thankful for, even if he doesn’t get through all of it. He thinks that just  _ maybe _ this’ll all end up okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm gonna end it here because I have no idea where else to go with this bc I have no idea how to support someone so I must now Perish.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't like my dad
> 
> Here's my Discord server  
https://discord.gg/eGkwayy


End file.
